


i'm not here looking for absolution

by selenedaydreams



Category: Football RPF
Genre: A.S. Roma, Liverpool F.C., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 07:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14515395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenedaydreams/pseuds/selenedaydreams
Summary: “Congratulations.” Is the first thing Francesco says, standing up from his seat to embrace him.Mohamed can’t help but smile, tucking into his chest and relaxing against him for a solid moment. Francesco exudes politeness and sportsmanship as much as he exudes history and legacy. He knows how difficult that one word must be to speak but he does it anyway, unprompted and without expectations.





	i'm not here looking for absolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).



> **to shaz** , i honestly cannot remember how i agreed to write this but moreover, how it's bordering on 2k, although i can't ever do anything with any semblance of narrative casually so
> 
> uploading this literally less than 15 minutes before 2nd leg kickoff so in like 2 hours, this could be half fiction or i could have foretold the future 
> 
> title from _florence + the machine_ bedroom hymns

No one expects it to be easy but for a whole eighty minutes, Anfield is a dream come true.

Roma means more to Mohamed than words could ever express. While Chelsea cast him out after two grueling, nightmarish years and a dozen half chances, loaning him to Fiorentina to rid themselves of him, Roma was an oasis of hope extending him a lifeline. One final chance to prove himself.

He’d like to believe that he did. He’d like to believe that being the club’s top scorer and putting them within grasping reach of the scudetto was enough regardless of how it ended or maybe, in spite of the fact that it ended.

Rome loved him and he loved it back. Truly, honestly, and wholeheartedly.

But when Roberto feeds him the ball again and he smashes it into the back of the net for the second time in ten minutes, he has to remind himself to school his emotions and keep his celebration in check as his teammates swirl around him, voices booming, hands descending down upon him to grab and pat him.

There is no bad blood, no animosity. He doesn’t feel the need for any sort of vengeance but if they expected him to give anything less than one hundred and ten percent then they never knew him to begin with.

 

 

 

As his number flashes on the substitution board halfway through the second half, he doesn’t question it. Clasps Danny’s hands as he pushes past him onto the pitch and leans into Jürgen’s embrace before joining the bench, their good spirits bleeding into him despite the bone-deep exhaustion that settles in once he sits down.

Despite Edin’s goal, despite the unnecessary penalty that they gave away, Mohamed is swept into a pile of sweaty, ecstatic bodies as soon as the final whistle blows. Dejan wraps his arms around him tight enough to knock the air out of his lung, tucking his face against his neck and murmuring over and over again about how they did it.

Mohamed stops himself from reminding him that technically, they haven’t done anything yet. Still. It’s not perfect but it’s enough for now.

In the locker room, he lets them drench him in champagne, washing off the sticky sweetness in the shower once he finally has a moment to himself. It all sinks in then - what they’ve done. What they still need to do follows almost immediately.

 

 

 

A nil nil draw at the weekend against Stoke doesn’t exactly bode well and while Jürgen seems to understand that they exhausted themselves almost entirely midweek fighting for their lives, he reminds them that it’s no excuse. They need to do better.

Suddenly the Champions League seems so far away and the fact that they have yet to secure a place in the top four for next season comes into sharp focus and remains there over the next couple of days.

It stays with him as he steps into the visitors’ locker room and the visitors’ side of the tunnel at the Stadio Olimpico. Edin reaches for his hand to pull him against his chest, lips brushing over his cheek. Mohamed feels a heavy hand on his back too - Radja’s. They both wear familiar, comforting smiles that Mohamed returns on reflex – muscle memory.

The calm before the storm is always nice, especially in matches like these.

Especially when not even five minutes into the match Radja collides into him, bringing him down immediately after Sadio passes him the ball. When Mohamed grasps Radja’s outstretched hand to pull himself to his feet, that familiar smile is gone, replaced by unmitigated determination.

Good.

It makes smashing another one into the back of the net ten minutes later so much easier. It makes assisting Roberto early into the second half easier too. If they whistle him, he can’t hear them over the cheering of the traveling Liverpool fans.

Somehow, it also makes Edin’s last minute goal easier to swallow too. A clean sheet is a nice dream and something that should always be aspired towards but in the grand scheme of things, it’s not necessary now.

They won. Not just the first leg. Not just the second leg. They made it to the fucking Champions League final.

All that stands between them and that trophy is 90 minutes in Kiev and, unsurprisingly, Real Madrid.

He has a few weeks to contemplate that though. The number one objective right now remains salvaging their Premier League season.

 

 

 

Jürgen gives them two days off. He’s two seconds away from giving them the entire week off before he stops himself and reconsiders. That’s how Mohamed finds himself in the lobby of one of the most expensive hotels in Rome following a simple text exchange after stepping out of the showers.

One the staff members escorts him to the in-house restaurant, pretending he doesn’t know exactly who he is, pretending that his face hasn’t been plastered on every single television in this building just hours prior. Mohamed appreciates it, honestly. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy meeting fans, if any Italian could be considered a fan of his at this moment, but after 90 minutes of running and fighting so hard his lungs still carry a dull ache, he cherishes the discretion.

The restaurant he is lead into is…unexpectedly empty.

Well. Empty safe for the table in the far off corner that is occupied by someone illuminated by soft candlelight. When Mohamed steps further inside, he hears the door shut behind him with a soft click. This shouldn’t shock him, really, but it does, nonetheless.

“Congratulations.” Is the first thing Francesco says, standing up from his seat to embrace him.

Mohamed can’t help but smile, tucking into his chest and relaxing against him for a solid moment. Francesco exudes politeness and sportsmanship as much as he exudes history and legacy. He knows how difficult that one word must be to speak but he does it anyway, unprompted and without expectations.

Mohamed pulls back eventually in favor of squeezing his arms, his hands lingering on the stiff fabric of his suit. It makes him suddenly aware of the fact that he changed into his jeans and button down instead of into his own suit as Francesco was probably anticipating. “Your boys put up a great fight.” On the contrary, that wasn’t difficult to say at all - it’s the truth. The thought that they were once his boys, that he was one of _Francesco’s_ boys, leaves his mind as soon as it enters.

 

 

 

They stumble into the hotel room on the 22nd floor at half past two in the morning.

The match and Champions League set aside, Francesco seemed genuinely interested in hearing about his life since his transfer while they ate even though Mohamed had next to nothing to report. He figured the World Cup wouldn’t be an appropriate topic but Francesco pressed him about the Egyptian national team for an entire half an hour, even offering insights into Uruguay's style of play and weaknesses.

It made a comfortable sort of warmth settle into his chest as dinner progressed that lingers still as he takes a moment to admire the hotel room. Grand bed with an equally grand headpiece. A large balcony overlooking Rome. The city lights peaking in through the opening in the curtains. Mohamed wants to thank him for splurging on him, all things considered, but before he has a chance to there are hands on his waist and warm lips on his own.

Okay. He can work with this too. It’s not as if it hadn’t been anticipated even though the last time anything like this had happened was a hurried handjob in the Stadio Olimpico locker room after a particularly bitter loss.

Mohamed kisses him back softly, slowing him down just enough to guide him over to the bed, hands reaching up to put pressure on his shoulders so he can climb into his lap. He cups Francesco’s face before pulling back.

“Is this some sort of reward?” He asks, searching his eyes for any fragment of an answer. “Or are just a glutton for punishment and want to see the man that knocked out your team in your bed?”

Mohamed catches a glimpse of a predatory smile before he’s being flipped over, back colliding with the mattress as Francesco spreads his legs wide enough for it to burn before settling between them. He braces his hands on either side of Mohamed’s shoulders before dropping down to mouth at his neck, teeth scraping over the delicate skin there.

“Why not both?”

A laugh bubbles out of Mohamed’s chest, morphing into a low moan as Francesco starts unbuttoning his shirt to suck a mark just below his collarbone - just below where the collar of his kit sits. Always unbearably caution.

Mohamed’s thighs are a different story altogether though. Francesco feels no remorse making them a patchwork of marks out of them until Mohamed is painfully turned on and trembling beneath him. Maybe this is Francesco’s version of a punishment. Mohamed wouldn’t put it past him.

In comparison to how long it takes Francesco to rid them both of their clothes and finally _finally_ sink into him, the match seems only seconds long. Mohamed clings to him then, locks his ankles together at the small of Francesco’s back to draw him in as deep as possible. It pulls a grunt out of Francesco and Mohamed swears he can feel his pleased smile against his skin.

Mohamed has never just laid down and allowed something to happen without putting up a fight. He knows it’s a side of him that Francesco adores more than he probably should.

He doesn’t go easy on him, doesn’t slow it down to account for the ache in each and every single one of Mohamed’s muscles. Not that Mohamed ever expected him to. He wants it just like this - hard and fast and with Francesco murmuring filthy praise into his ear.

Still, Mohamed will use his last remaining strength to claw and push at him, rolling them over haphazardly. With Francesco’s fingers digging bruises into his hips, he plasters his face against his neck and shoulder and rides him entirely without any finesse for a grand total of less than a minute before he’s collapsing on top of him, sweaty and sticky and just accepting Francesco fucking up into him a dozen more times before he finishes too.

The one thing Mohamed failed to take into account is that when Francesco slips out and gently rolls him over again onto his back, he can’t fucking move. His legs are useless and every single part of him burns and aches so soothingly good. Despite not playing a single minute tonight, not even Francesco has the strength to do anything more than reach for his discarded shirt and wipe them both down just enough so they won’t feel uncomfortable.

“Really?” Mohamed asks as Francesco settles back down next to him. “You dine me and fuck me but don’t draw me a bath?”

The halfhearted slap to his thigh is entirely deserved. “If only people knew how greedy you really are.”

Mohamed laughs, smiles at him bright and huge before shifting closer to pillow his head on Francesco’s chest. “If I was really greedy I would’ve scored a hat trick.” After a moment of contemplation. “Maybe even a poker.”

Mohamed expects another jab, for Francesco to pinch his thigh or even shove him off the bed and tell him that’s where he’s sleeping tonight. Instead, Francesco’s fingers find their way into Mohamed’s mess of curls, scratching lightly at his scalp. “Shut up and sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- if you were not aware, [salah replaced totti in his last match](http://www.worldfootball.net/report/serie-a-2016-2017-as-roma-genoa-cfc/) ever in a 2nd half substitution against genoa because, The Narrative really do work like that sometimes  
> \- so, uh, apparently totti has been [consistently following liverpool this season](http://www.football365.com/news/roma-legend-totti-shocked-by-salahs-impact-at-liverpool) because of mo?  
> \- please consider [this](https://cdn.images.dailystar.co.uk/dynamic/58/photos/537000/620x/Totti-and-Salah-683724.jpg) and [this](https://www.kingfut.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/02/GettyImages-490143552.jpg) aaaaaand [this](https://images2.gazzettaobjects.it/methode_image/Video/2017/05/28/Calcio/Foto%20Calcio%20-%20Trattate/b9e0a96816f36b8c2a156113222a846c_169_xl.jpg) which speaks to me for specific reasons 
> 
> every week i become invested in an obscure pairing. i hope you enjoyed and thank you for clicking on this fic and making it this far! find me on [tumblr](http://ikercasiillas.tumblr.com/)


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